


Proud

by caloriebomb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Dean, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean is determined to find out Sam's secret kink; succeeds in a BIG way; maybe wishes he'd never asked. </p><p> </p><p>“Dude, c'mon,” he said. “There's gotta be <i>something.</i>”</p><p>“Not all of us like wearing panties, Dean,” Sam said. He was on his back in their bed, head on his hands, gazing up at the ceiling like he was supremely bored with the conversation. “Some of us are fine with good old boxers.”</p><p>“Is it feet? I bet it's feet.” Dean pressed his own bare toes to Sam's hairy calf, laughing when Sam jerked away. </p><p>Eugh, the opposite. Cold toes are the biggest turn-off.”</p><p>“This isn't fair,” Dean growled. “You know all my weird shit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud

**Author's Note:**

> This gets a bit dark towards the end. For spoilers see the note at the bottom.

“Dude, c'mon,” he said. “There's gotta be _something._ ”

“Not all of us like wearing panties, Dean,” Sam said. He was on his back in their bed, head on his hands, gazing up at the ceiling like he was supremely bored with the conversation. “Some of us are fine with good old boxers.”

“Is it feet? I bet it's feet.” Dean pressed his own bare toes to Sam's hairy calf, laughing when Sam jerked away. 

Eugh, the opposite. Cold toes are the biggest turn-off.”  
“This isn't fair,” Dean growled. “You know all my weird shit.”

“Yeah, and I go for it when you ask me to.”

“I know you do,” said Dean fondly, and bit Sam's muscled shoulder. 

“Ow! See? I let you bite me. What more do you want?”

Dean gentled the bite into a kiss. “Just wanna make you happy.”

“Well, you do,” Sam said firmly, and rolled over until he was facing Dean, propped on his side. He smiled. “You make me real happy, stud.”

But Dean hadn't raised the kid for nothing, and he just _knew,_ could see in Sam's eyes, that he was holding back.

I'll get you, my pretty, he thought. And your little dog, too. 

God, he hoped there were no dogs involved.

 

It wasn't leather. Dean knew that already. And it wasn't dom/sub stuff, either. He ordered octopus at a restaurant and let it hang from his mouth for a while, and from Sam's horrified expression he figured out it wasn't tentacle porn, either. He thought for a second it might be hair – finally something to explain Sam's godforsaken moptop – but lots of casually placed photographs and sensual head-rubbing produced nothing but confused looks. Dean pretended to need a new pair of boots and figured after two hours in a shoe store that shoes were out, too. It wasn't tattoos. It wasn't bathroom-related. What the fuck was it?

By the end of the first week, Dean was down to two theories, both of them pretty weird but not weird enough to be so freaking embarrassed about: he thought it was either ice cream, or bellybuttons.

In his hawklike observance of Sam's reactions that week – including his pupil dilation, breathing rates, and sweat production – he'd noticed that twice now his brother'd gotten a little hot and bothered during dessert. Both times, that dessert was ice cream. Dean's ice cream, to be specific, since Sam would never dream of having something as frightening as _dessert_. But Dean had twice ordered a sundae, and noticed a peculiar alertness in Sam, a shine to his eyes, a hitch to his breath.

Actually, he'd seemed a little alert all during the meal, but the ice cream really tipped him over the edge.

He'd also noticed that Sam paid a lot of attention to his belly button during sex – licking it, fingering it, rubbing it... well, he paid a lot of attention to Dean's whole stomach-area, but the belly button got a little special treatment, for sure. 

So one morning, Dean ordered a hot fudge sundae for breakfast. Just to see what would happen.

Sam's reaction was instantaneous. His eyes got wide, he bit his lip, and in true Sam fashion, he wanted to talk about it.

“You're kidding,” Sam said. “Ice cream for breakfast? Do you know how much sugar's in that? You want to start your day full of that much sugar and cream?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I wanna eat sugar and cream all day long, Sammy.”

Sam flushed, and covered it with a head shake. “You're nuts, man.”

“There's gonna be nuts on this ice cream sundae, is what.”

“You should at least get something salty to go along with it,” Sam said. “Otherwise I'm gonna get nauseous just looking at you.”

That wasn't a bad point. Dean signaled the waitress. But when she came over, he had a weird instinctual urge to try something else.

“He'll order for me,” he said, pointing at his brother. “If you're such a breakfast expert,” he added to Sam.

“What?” Sam said, and Dean could swear his color'd risen another two shades. “Okay. Uh. Okay. He'll have – he'll have a side of bacon, too. And two fried eggs with cheddar cheese.”

Driven by that same instinct that made him a Sam Winchester expert, Dean said, his voice a little lower than normal, “Is that all, Sam? Is that all you want to feed me?”

“And buttered toast,” Sam blurted out, then sat back in the booth, blushing furiously, as the waitress strode off.

“That's it, isn't it,” Dean said.

“What,” Sam said, scowling.

“Your kink. I found your kink. It's not fucking bellybuttons. It's watching me eat.”

He knew immediately he'd hit the nail right on the head. Sam looked caught-out and near tears, and Dean hastened to reassure him.

“Dude, I'm not judging you! I really fucking wanted to know! And now I know! Ha!” He smacked his palm on the table. “Am I good or am I good? Hot damn, Sammy. Give me some props!”

“You're pretty good,” Sam said, slowly.

“But?” Dean said. “But?”

“But you don't – you don't know it all.”

“Yeah?” Dean said, leaning across the table. “Then why don't you tell me?”

Sam looked torn, wrecked. “It's weird, Dean. It's like, it's really, it's really weird.”

“Look, man. Lemme get cheesy for a minute. Nothing you say could possibly turn me offa wanting you. Okay? Nothing you say is gonna freak me out.”

“I like watching you eat, for sure,” Sam said, and took a deep breath. “But what I really like...”

Dean, god help him, was getting a little hard. The suspense was killing him.

“... And to tell you the truth, I've never actually seen it... on you...”

“Out with it!”

“... Is the idea of gaining weight.”

Dean thumped back in his chair, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait, what? You mean to tell me that Sam 5-miles-a-morning Winchester is a chubby chaser?”

Sam almost smiled. “Yeah. Uh, yeah.”

“Huh.”

“You are,” Sam said, burying his face in his hands. “You're judging me.”

“No, dude, are you kidding? I like something to hold onto as much as the next guy. On you it's your gigantic muscles, on girls it's, you know.” He sketched some exaggerated curves in the air. 

“I like it when you eat too much,” Sam said in a rush.

Dean licked his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like it when you stuff your face and then complain about it. I love watching you rub your stomach, love hearing you moan, love the way your belly gets all tight and almost rounded...”

Dean reached under the table to surreptitiously palm his dick. Feeding wasn't his thing, like, at all – but watching Sam get turned on _was_. It was, in fact, his number 1. Got him harder, better, faster, stronger, than anything else on the planet. That gleam in Sam's eye. The splotches on his cheeks. The bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. Christ.

“Who's got the sundae special?” the waitress said, and they both jerked their heads up guiltily to look at her. “Get it?” she said. “Sundae? Special? Well, it's Wednesday, but...”

“Me,” Dean said. “I do.”

And she set it out before him. Giant sundae slathered with hot fudge, whipped cream, caramel, nuts, the works. Four pieces of bacon and a couple eggs swimming in cheese and grease. Two pieces of toast, soggy with butter.

Sam had an eggwhite omelette. What a fucking enigma.

“Okay,” Dean said, picking up his spoon and jabbing at the sundae. “So, what do you want me to do with all this?”

Sam caught on fast. “I want you to eat it,” he said, his voice firm. “I want you to eat every last bite.”

“And if I don't?”

“If you don't... then you can forget about coming today. No jerking yourself off, either. I'll be watching you.”

“Better hop to it, then,” Dean said. 

He ate the sundae first, of course, going fast so he could get to his eggs before they congealed in their puddle of grease. The heat of the fudge melted some of the ice cream so there was still a big puddle in the dish when he was done, and he moved to push it away.

“No,” Sam said. “You have to drink that.”

Keeping eye contact, Dean picked up the bowl and slurped the melted ice cream. 

“Good,” Sam said. 

Dean's cock jerked in his jeans. He picked up his fork, then put it down. The easiest way to do this, obviously, was an egg sandwich. He slid the eggs and bacon onto the bread and chomped down. Egg yolk spurted onto his chin and he reached for a napkin, then stopped.

Speaking through a full mouth, he said, “D'you like it when I get a little messy?”

Breathless, now, shifting in his seat, Sam nodded.

Okee dokee. Dean could do messy. He went at the sandwich, tearing through it, eating fast since he was already full. He licked crumbs from his lips, sucked cheese from his fingers. Burped. 

“Done,” he said, and heaved a breath. He felt okay. A little fuller than he'd like, but nothing crazy. He'd eat this for dinner, no problem, just wasn't used to eating like this for breakfast. 

“Let's get the fuck out of here,” Sam said.

It was the best sex they'd ever had. 

Literally.

Ever.

By the time they'd finished and Sam was mopping them up with a warm washcloth, lingering over Dean's stomach, Dean knew he was fucking doomed.

“So,” he said. “Fifteen pounds?”

“You'd really do that?” Sam said. “For me?”

“Sam,” Dean said. “When are you gonna get it through your head. I'd do fucking anything for you.”

 

He started at 175, and those first fifteen came on surprisingly easy. Dean, never one to hold back with food, simply stepped it up a notch. Instead of three pancakes, he'd have five. Instead of just bacon, he'd have bacon and sausage. Instead of coffee, a coffee milkshake. He had dessert after breakfast, a cookie or a donut, and dessert after lunch and dinner, too. Lunch would be a double-patty burger with extra cheese and mayo, and cheesy fries instead of regular. Dipped them in ranch instead of ketchup. Got onion rings, too. Or he'd have five slices of pizza instead of three. A couple glasses of Coke, or beer, or another milkshake. Dinner was all grease and carbs, per Sam's suggestion. Fettucini alfredo. Mac and cheese. More pizza. Then ice cream. 

Then, sex. God, so much sex, like they were reliving the teenage years they'd never had: sex for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

He gained it in three months.

“I don't look much different,” he said. “Do I?”

“Not much,” Sam agreed. Dean was standing shirtless in their motel room, and Sam was circling him slowly. “I can see it here...” He trailed a finger down Dean's side, then down his belly. “And here.” He touched Dean's chin.

“You can see it in my face?” This bugged him a little, and his hand went unwittingly to his jawline.

“Tiny bit. Cause I'm looking for it.”

“All my clothes still fit,” Dean shrugged. He felt pretty pleased with himself, really.

“Yeah.” Sam, on the other hand, looked like he was pushing down disappointment.

“Oh god, what,” Dean said. “I'm not fat enough for you, is that it?”

Sam snorted. “You're not fat at all, man. Not that I – I mean, I think you're hot no matter what, you know that.”

Dean pressed his hand into the soft flesh of his stomach. It hadn't been soft three months ago. Now it was. That wasn't such a big deal, right? It was fine. He was just a teeny bit soft. 

And he'd liked eating. Liked it because Sam's eyes had been on him the entire time, full of pleasure, full of lust, full of contentment. And there was no denying it'd taken their sex life to a whole new level.

If fifteen pounds was so negligible, another fifteen couldn't hurt.

“All right,” Dean said. “Fifteen more.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty. That's it!”

Sam squealed like the little girl he was.

 

This next stage, Sam started pressing snacks.

An hour or so after breakfast the next morning – plain donut, cheesy hashbrowns, butter-slick toast, four slices of bacon, and a five-egg omelette with three types of cheese, all smothered in thick white gravy – Sam handed Dean a pack of peanut M&Ms.

“What's this?” Dean said, glancing away from the road for a second. “Oh, dude, really?”

He was still burping bacon fumes.

“Really,” said Sam.

Resigned, Dean ripped the pack open with his teeth and shook a few into his mouth. The sugar shock was actually kind of nice. And there weren't that many M&Ms in a pouch – he finished them in under ten minutes, no problem. Smacked his lips. Grinned at his brother.

“Good,” said Sam. And there went Dean's dick again, hopping upwards at the pride in Sam's voice.

They stopped for gas another hour later, and Dean let Sam press him into getting a hot dog. It was only one measly hot dog, but Dean wasn't hungry, by any stretch of the imagination, and when Sam said, “Choose another candy,” he groaned.

He got a pack of king size Reese's. They were gone before they stopped for lunch.

“Go easy on me, Sammy,” Dean said, slipping a hand between his jeans and his bare stomach, pressing down a little. His skin was hot like it was protesting what he'd shoved beneath it. 

Sam's idea of easy was a tuna melt on a grilled bagel, with a side of mozarella sticks dipped in mayo. Plus fries. Plus a slice of missippi mud pie to go with the coffee Dean was desperately hoping would settle his stomach. 

It didn't.

“Oof, christ,” he said, when Sam started to stand to go. “Give me a fucking second, here. Ugh.”

“Full?” Sam said, grinning.

Dean didn't dignify that with a response, just leaned back in his seat and tentatively slipped a hand beneath his t-shirt, rubbing, but it didn't help.

Neither did dinner.

Eggplant parmesan sub with meatballs and extra parm. Tater tots with ranch. A slice of pepperoni pizza, also with ranch. A chocolate milkshake. Something called a “chocolate bomb” which was the size of two of Sam's fists and covered in buttercream.

“Sam, I can't keep pace like this,” Dean said, stretched out on their bed, jeans unbuttoned, shirt off. Sam was carefully rubbing firm circles in his stomach, which was sticking out farther than Dean had ever seen it. It hurt. It like, really hurt. 

“You were so amazing today,” Sam said, in _that voice_. “So good. So strong.”

“Ugh,” Dean said. “I think I need a blowjob.”

“Mmm, I think you might.” Sam slipped gentle fingers beneath the elastic of Dean's boxers, lifted up. It felt amazing. “You eat for me,” Sam said, leaning down, “and I eat for you.”

“Quid pro quo, Clarice,” Dean deadpanned, but he didn't say a hell of a lot after that.

 

“You want Doritos or Lays?”

“Cool ranch, bitch.”

Sam handed them over. Dean had just finished a microwaved gas-station burrito, and he dropped the wrapper into Sam's waiting palm, then dug his fingers into the chips, enjoying the crunch of them in contrast to the softness of the burrito. He shifted a little in the driver's seat, stuck a thumb beneath his waistband, adjusted the seatbelt, took another handful of chips.

“Those getting a little tight?” Sam said.

“Huh?” Dean said. “Oh. Nah, they're just...”

He shifted again, arched his back a little. Had some more chips. Breakfast had been waffles, smothered in whipped cream and butter, sausage on the side, but after two weeks he was getting used to Sam's feeding-pace and now, just three hours and a burrito later, he was feeling okay. A little uncomfortable, but then, they'd been driving for hours, of course he was a little uncomfortable. 

Sooner than he would've expected, his fingers reached the bottom of the chip bag, and he shook the crumbs into his mouth, licked the ranch flavoring off his lips.

“If you think you can take it,” Sam said, “you could go for the Lays, too.”

“What are you gonna give me,” Dean said, and Sam opened the bag for him, set it between his legs. Squeezed his cock for measure. Shit. _Now_ the jeans were tight.

“Road head,” Sam said. “Right here, right in the open.”

Dean plunged a hand into the Lays. 

When they cruised into a town a while later, Dean was spent and beaming, and Sam was doing his best to make them both presentable for lunch. 

“Haven't had Chinese in a while,” Sam said. 

“Your call,” Dean said. He got a little flush of pleasure from saying this. 

General Tso's chicken, deep fried and dripping in sugary orange sauce. 6 crab rangoons. 6 scallion pancakes. 2 pork dumplings. Rice. Some of Sam's lo mein. Fried green tea ice cream.

“How you feeling?” Sam said, eyeing him as he chased his spoon around the melted ice cream.

“Swell,” Dean said, and burped.

“Good,” he said. “Because I've got a surprise planned for dinner.”

“Aw, Sam. You shouldn't have.”

They were headed down the East Coast, and after they'd been driving for a couple hours, Dean said, “No snack?”

“Nope. Not today. Gotta save your energy.”

Dean smirked, inched forward in his seat a little so he could lean back. It wasn't that he was hungry. He just – it was kinda nice having something to do while he drove, something to do with his hands. He was a tactile guy.

“You want a Twinkie, or something?” Sam said. “I don't wanna deprive you.”

“Ha!” Dean said. “That's one thing you don't have to worry about.” Then, after a minute, “I can totally handle a Twinkie.”

He loved Twinkies. They were soft and went down so easy. He chased a little frosting from the edge of his mouth, noticed his brother watching and winked. 

Sam reached over and rucked up Dean's shirt, splayed a warm palm across his belly. And, huh, it was definitely kind of a belly now. Stuck out a little. Dean could see the curve to it when he looked down. Couldn't see the button of his jeans. Which still fit fine. He arched into Sam's touch. He gave the best fucking bellyrubs. 

A skill Dean appreciated even more after that night.

“A country buffet,” Dean said, settling into the booth. “Real classy, Sam.”

“I'll fill your plate,” Sam said. “I know what you like. You just sit back, relax, drink that sweet tea.”

First plate was an enormous mound of mashed potatoes smothered in sausage gravy. “There anything under here?” he said, digging his spoon in.

“Nope,” Sam said. “Wanna get a nice base layer. Oh, and here --” He unwrapped five packets of butter and added them on top. 

Dean snorted. “Hey, I've got something you'll like,” he said. “Watch.” He unwrapped his own butter packet, put it on his tongue, and swallowed it whole.

“Jesus christ, Dean,” Sam said, staring, his eyes wide and bright.

“Heh. Thought that'd tickle you.” He went back to his mashed potatoes.

Second course was Mac and Cheese and fried chicken. And shit, was it good.

Third course was more potatoes, more butter, and more fried chicken. 

“How you doing?” Sam asked. 

“Mmmf,” Dean said. His mouth was full of flaky, battered chicken skin. He swallowed. “Getting full.”

“Getting there? Or there already?”

Dean took a moment to think about it, resting a hand absentmindedly on his belly, then trailing down to jam his thumb under his waistband, trying to get some room. There was none to be had. “If I loosen my belt, I think I can handle one more,” he said.

“So loosen your belt.”

Dean glanced around the restaurant. It was mostly old people, and really fat old people, at that. He and Sam were probably the fittest guys in the place. No one would notice. Would they? He leaned back, quickly fumbling with his buckle, and went down two notches. Three. Popped open the button on his jeans for good measure.

“All right,” he said, letting out a hard breath.

Fourth plate was pulled pork. A gigantic heap of it, and two enormous, flaky biscuits slathered in butter. Dean made it about halfway through before he stopped, swallowing convulsively.

“I can't,” he said. “Sam, I'm sorry, I can't.”

“Hey,” Sam said, “that's okay, man. Don't worry about it.”

But Dean caught the glimpse of disappointment.

“Gimme like... gimme a minute.”

“Hey, we have nowhere to be.”

That was true. They sat for a while, chatting idly, Dean's hand pressed between his waistband and stomach, eyeing that pulled pork. He felt full up to his eyes. His sides ached, and there was a dull throb in his upper belly, right at the crest, where it was roundest.

Yeesh, he thought, palming it distractedly. He had a “roundest” part of his stomach. He scratched it a little, trying to soothe it. “And away we go,” he said, and shoveled in another forkful of the pork.

He finished it all. 

Sam sent him to lie down in the backseat of the Impala while he paid, and Dean did so, taking off his belt altogether and throwing it to the floor. Good god, this was uncomfortable. Sam came back whistling and carrying a huge box.

“Chocolate banana cream pie,” he said. “Say hello to your breakfast tomorrow.”

“Why,” Dean moaned, “why would you say breakfast.”

Sam started the car, and as he eased out onto the highway he reached back to give Dean's stomach a quick, fond pat. “You'll love it,” he said.

Dean fell asleep like a rock that night, weighted down with food. He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, noticed a new fleshiness around his upper arms, the press of his belly against his t-shirt. He must've gained another five pounds just in two weeks. 

They'd agreed not to track down a scale for four months, but Dean did some math in his head. 175+15+5... He was probably about 195. That wasn't so bad at all. He was six foot two (in boots). 195 was normal for a guy his height. 

Sam fucked him slow that night, mindful of his tender stomach, both of his big mitts caressing it. “Your ass is getting bigger,” he whispered in Dean's ear as Dean came. 

The next morning Dean awoke hungry.

The intensity of fullness had been replaced by a sharp, hollow sensation, and when Dean glanced at the alarm clock he knew why. It was almost 10am, more than two hours after he usually woke up.

“Hey, sleepy,” Sam said, grinning.

“Hey.” Dean couldn't help grinning back.

“Look what I stole from the restaurant,” Sam said, and showed Dean the contents of his coat pockets: they were full of little butter packets, which he sealed into a plastic bag. All but one – that one he offered to Dean on the tip of his finger. Dean sucked it off, swallowed it down.

“They're not many calories,” Sam said. “But whenever you're in the mood, just tell me, and I'll feed you one. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You ready for your pie?”

“Think so,” Dean said, and sat up a little in anticipation, resting against the headboard with the sheet still pooled around his waist. He put his hands down his boxers. Not to grab his dick – that would come later – but just to get a barrier between the waistband and his skin. It was kind of... pinching. 

“I'm gonna feed it to you,” Sam said. “Okay? And... I want you to close your eyes while I do it.”

“Whoa,” Dean commented, but obediently shut his eyes. Sam slipped a smooth, rich mouthful past his lips, and stroked his hip as Dean swallowed. Shit, it was good.

“Don't open them until I say you can,” Sam said. So Dean didn't. He fell into a sleepy, hypnotic, intensely sexy rhythm – the fork nudging his lips, the sweet creamy pie, Sam's low, soothing voice and the circles he started rubbing on Dean's stomach through his t-shirt.

“Sam,” Dean said, “can you,” and he rucked his t-shirt up under his armpits to give his brother better access, and sighed with pleasure. Skin-on-skin was so much better. 

Fullness came on slowly. First a light pressure. Then a noticeable pressure. Then the discomfort. But it was like Sam was reading his mind – as soon as the pressure began to hurt, he said, “Keep your eyes closed – we're gonna stop for a minute.” And then he peeled down Dean's boxers and dropped his mouth onto Dean's dick. Went like that for a while, until Dean was _almost there_ – then drew back. Slammed a hand over Dean's eyes, laughing. “Keep 'em closed!”

“Dammit, Sam --” but he was silenced by more pie. 

He was so turned on he wasn't sure if the pain was coming from his cock, or his stomach, but he shifted position, groped around on the bed and found a pillow, stuffed it behind his back. Much better. More pie.

“You okay?” Sam said. “Can I keep going?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, though in truth he was having a little trouble breathing. He could hear the wheeze of his breath, too shallow, his lungs unable to inflate into the space taken up by his full stomach.

“Guess what,” Sam said.

“What.”

“I can't keep going. Open your eyes.”

Dean snapped them open, and gaped at the empty aluminum tin Sam was showing him. “No fucking way,” he said. “I just ate a whole pie?”

“You,” Sam said, “are just about the most amazing thing I've ever seen.” He dropped a kiss on Dean's stomach, which, yeah, looked like it had an entire pie in it.

“Holy shit.”

“Save the profanity for when you come,” Sam said, and Dean obeyed.

 

Just three days later and Dean had to face facts. His jeans were old news.

They constricted his stomach, which was bad enough, but they pinched around the creases of his thighs, too – tight in the ass, waist, and legs. He examined himself in the mirror, feeling for the first time a little spark of alarm. Shit, you could really see the weight, now. Well, he'd probably gained a total of 20, 21 pounds by now. Course you could. And it wasn't that bad.

It was just... you really could see it.

His stomach rounded out under his pecks, and he had... shit, he had love handles. Though that was probably due to his tight jeans. Anyone got love handles in tight jeans. He squinted at his reflection in the mirror. His chest looked a little softer, too. And his face, definitely. Upper arms. Ass. 

So he wasn't thin anymore. He sure wasn't fat. He was just a little more solid. He swallowed down his nerves. Just 15 more pounds. That'd be nothing. One size up in jeans, who cared? And he could totally get away with wearing this jeans for another ten pounds. He sucked in a breath and tugged the down under the curve of his stomach. That made his stomach round out under his t-shirt more, but it felt a hell of a lot better.

His nipples seemed more visible beneath the cloth, which was kinda weird. But he knew Sam liked it. He'd started tweaking them at random times during the day, and though Dean yelped and batted him off, they both knew he liked it. Dean loved to have his nipples played with. 

Sam was out on a lunch run, so Dean ate three pats of butter to show himself he was cool with this. He was cool with it. Sam was happier than he'd ever seen him, actually – glowing, all the time. Handing Dean little chocolates. Reaching over and wiping cream off his lips with the pad of his thumb. Feeding him donut-holes while he drove. 

Dean's stomach growled. Sam'd been gone almost a half hour. He'd eaten a couple tacos about an hour ago, but they'd been small. Taco Bell had the tiniest portions, seriously. So he opened the mini fridge and helped himself to one of the ice cream sandwiches Sam knew he loved, and had stocked the tiny freezer with.

Hell, Dean thought, and ate another. He was licking the wrapper when Sam pushed open the door, weighed down with two greasy, delicious-smelling bags.

“Whadda we got,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair. He'd done up the button on his jeans, but now he unfastened it in preparation. After all, they were in the privacy of their own home. 

“Ribs,” Sam said. “Ribs, potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, the works. Plus a cheesecake for dessert. Here, you start on the ribs, I'm just going to melt some cheese on the potatoes. Eat some butter, baby.”

“Already did,” Dean said, and showed him the empty wrappers, and those from the ice cream sandwiches, too.

“Damn,” Sam said, and whistled low. “Dean.” He leaned over and kissed him long, slow, deep. “You are the sexiest thing I've ever seen.”

“Say that when I've got barbecue sauce all over me,” Dean said as he lifted out a dripping, fatty rib. 

“I will,” Sam said, and he did.

 

The jeans lasted another week before Dean had to fully give up the ghost. He couldn't button them at all anymore. Literally, couldn't even get the two flaps together. And the zipper barely came up halfway.

His shirts were all a little tight, too – he noticed he had to tug them down more often, which confused him at first... tighter, yeah, but shorter? Then he caught sight of himself in a storefront window, saw the way the fabric was creased around the top of his belly, around his chest, under his arms, and understood. Duh. 

He could feel the extra weight. Like, all of a sudden. He woke in the morning and his hand was always on his belly. He'd drag it up to his chest, squeeze. It felt damn good. Then he sat up and looked down and had to fight a wave of apprehension. His belly was – a real belly, now. Felt like it had happened overnight, but he knew it hadn't, had been a slow, concentrated process, and he'd felt it the whole way through.

They still had two and a half months left to go, so Dean had gained... let's say, 10 pounds since that first weigh-in, although probably it was more like 7, but he'd round up for good measure. 

Sam brought him home another pair of jeans, which made a huge difference. No more pain on long car rides. No more constantly adjusting himself, trying to be comfortable.

His shirts were fine, for now. His flannel was tight around the shoulders, a little – were his shoulders getting bigger? – but they buttoned fine. The t-shirts, yeah, they rode up, but not terrible. Just a little uncomfortable.

Sam couldn't keep his hands off him. It was pretty awesome.

“I have an idea,” Sam said one night. Dean was sitting in bed with his laptop, and Sam was curled at his side, one proprietary hand on Dean's belly, his lips at Dean's throat. 

“Shoot,” Dean said, distracted. They hadn't found a hunt in a couple days and he thought maybe he just hadn't been doing enough research.

“We've got 45 days til you're next weigh-in,” Sam said. “As you know. And I was thinking... what would you think... of maybe renting a place somewhere? Like, just relaxing? Eating, fucking... feeding, on my part.”

Dean closed the laptop slowly. “You wanna do that?”

Sam kissed him softly, his fingers digging into the flesh of Dean's belly. “Fuck yeah I do.”

Dean had unconsciously pushed his middle outward at the touch of Sam's fingers. These days it was like there was an electrical current between his stomach and his cock. It was almost time for bed, he'd had a pint of ice cream not too long ago, and he was feeling mellow. “All right,” he said. “Sure. But you make the arrangements. And don't ask me about it. I don't care if the curtains are pink, that's your shit, okay? Mr. Domestic.”

“Deal!” Sam said, and Dean grinned. It was like he was a little kid again. “This is gonna be the best,” Sam said, and kissed him again.

 

The cabin Sam found was in Georgia, “land of the deep fry,” he said, winking at Dean as they cruised through their new neighborhood towards the house. “Look, we've got a grocery store, a fried chicken joint, a Chik Fil A, a McDonald's, a Chicken and Waffle house...”

“They like chicken down here, I guess,” Dean said.

“You like chicken, too.”

“You bet I do.” He patted his stomach, but the smile faded from his face a little. Jesus, it was weird to be bigger. He jiggled a little when he patted. Not much – his belly was pretty damn firm – but just a little. Cause there was like, fat, there. He dropped his hands to his side.

The house was adorable – a one-story with a big kitchen, big living room, and a teeny bedroom.

“You get in the bedroom,” Sam said. “I'm bringing you a treat.”

Dutifully, Dean spread out on the big bed, grudgingly admiring the softness of the quilt, the plushness of the pillows. He could hear Sam clanking around, and his mouth started watering a little in anticipation, and his dick twitched. He realized his hand was on his belly again, and he dropped it, fast, embarrassed.

“Check it out,” Sam said, waggling his eyebrows as he came into the room with a tray. There was a little vase on the tray, with a daisy, and Dean rolled his eyes. Sam had brought him a huge chocolate cake with a big-ass heart on it.

“It was overstock from Valentine's,” Sam said, laughing at Dean's expression. “Promise it tastes good.”

There was a huge glass of milk, too. “Whoa,” Dean said. “This milk is freaking delicious.”

“It's cream.”

Dean swallowed his mouthful of cake and said thickly, “No wonder it's so good.”

He'd never eaten a whole cake before. Halfway through, he'd taken off his pants and rolled down the waistband of his boxers, and Sam was being pretty attentive with the belly rubs and the encouraging mini handjobs. Dean's stomach was bloating outward in a way that was visible to the naked eye.

“C'mon,” Sam said, speaking to Dean's belly. “Come on. You're doing great. You've got plenty of space in there, don't you. You love it. You fucking love this.”

Dean stuffed another forkful of cake into his mouth, too full to care if the frosting got on his chin. “Oh god,” he said.

“Want me to take over?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah. Yeah, would you?” He leaned back and closed his eyes, let himself be taken into that space of opening and closing his mouth, listening to his brothers voice, chewing loudly and with his mouth wide open, trying to get some air. Taking sips of cool cream when they were offered. Chewing more. Finished the cake. 

They broke the headboard that first night.

 

Dean took to wearing sweatpants around the house. Sam, in true Sam fashion, was part-time volunteering at the local library so he wouldn't go stir-crazy, but Dean had no such fears. He was enjoying himself. He watched movies all day, or read old sci fi novels, or just hung out on the porch, waving when people waved at him.

Sometimes he walked down the road a couple blocks for a snack. Sam gave him breakfast before he left at nine in the mornings – lately he'd been having a couple egg, bacon and cheese sandwiches on buttered donuts, with a little more bacon on the side – but he found himself getting peckish after an hour or two, so he'd wait in line for a small sandwich at Chik Fil A or get a couple breasts and a thigh at the fried chicken place before wandering back home. When he was on his own for lunch, he usually ordered a pizza, some wings, maybe breadsticks, around noon. 

He jerked off while he ate ice cream and cupcakes and waited for Sam to come home at three. 

Without really meaning to, he'd started avoiding mirrors. He kept his eyes averted as he brushed his teeth, tried not to check himself out in storefront windows. But he didn't have to look, to know he was steadily gaining. Might even be up fifteen more pounds, and still a month left. 

It wasn't that much to gain, just 35 pounds. But he could really feel it. Georgia was hot, and Dean sweat a lot, squirming on the couch under the weight of a panful of brownies in his stomach, sitting on the porch and trying not to rest a hand on his full belly like he wanted to. His shirts were real tight, now. He could see the outline of his belly button through them, and all day he kept tugging them down in vain.

He went to the library to meet Sam for lunch sometimes. Always planned to walk, but somehow ended up driving, though it was only six blocks. He had to put his jeans on to leave the house, and he tried to pretend the weren't a little tight, but they were, and his t-shirt bunched under his arms uncomfortably. He could swear people glanced at his stomach as he passed them, which he knew was most likely just paranoia, but he also knew that his shirts were too tight and he couldn't really hide it anymore.

He didn't like it.

The thing was, though, he was hungrier and hornier than ever. Sam took him out to lunch and he ate two double bacon cheeseburgers, onion rings, chili cheese fries, a milkshake, a piece of pie a la mode, and most of Sam's side of mashed potatoes. And he was... not still hungry, exactly, but he was stuffed full. And he'd gotten kinda used to being stuffed full. He sucked up the last dregs of his milkshake and scooted out of the booth, his hand on the table to help push him up. 

“I'm making a lasagna tonight,” Sam said, pulling him close, Dean's full stomach against Sam's toned one. “A whole pan just for you.” The kiss was brief – this was Georgia after all – but Dean's eyes fluttered closed all the same. 

“Can't wait,” he said. Stood outside the diner and watched as Sam went back into the library. Tugged his shirt down, hating himself, hating how bad he wanted more. Then he turned around and went back into the restaurant.

“I'll have another piece of that cherry pie, sweetheart,” he said. “A la mode again. Chocolate ice cream this time.”

He bolted it, swiped the filling from the plate with his finger. Now he was full. Really fucking full. His hand once again resting on his belly, a habit he couldn't break. He scooted to the edge of the booth, pushed himself up again. This time he left for real.

Behind the wheel of the Impala, he shifted position against the pressure of his stomach, shoved his hand down his pants the way he liked to do. Fingers brushing the base of his dick.

He jerked off before he'd even gotten home. 

He didn't tell Sam.

He ate the whole pan of lasagna and sat back in the kitchen chair with his legs splayed, belly mounding in front of him, while Sam spooned hot fudge and frosting down his throat. 

 

They bought a scale. 

He gained 40 pounds in those four months. 

“Well,” Dean said finally, clearing his throat. “Well, shit.”

Sam was practically panting. “That means you've gained --”

“50 pounds, Sam, yeah. Thanks. I know.”

“55,” Sam corrected.

He was 230. Which for a guy over six feet wasn't bad. He knew that. But holy shit.

He was 20 pounds over their 20 pound goal. Which explained... a lot.

It explained why he had red stretch marks on his hips and around his belly button and running up his firm, round stomach. Explained why all of his shirts clung skin-tight, why his boxers hurt, why he'd been safety-pinning his new jeans for a few weeks, why he had to roll down his sweatpants to make them comfortable.

Why he found himself leaning farther back in chairs, letting his stomach have some room. Why he grunted when he bent down to pick something up off the ground.

Why he'd gotten out breath going up a flight of seven stairs just the day before.

“Dean,” Sam said. “You're... the most... I can't even...”

Dean glanced down and saw Sam's cock straining against his boxers, and even though he could feel his thighs touching and the weight of his belly pressing up against his too-small shirt, he immediately got hard in response. 

Sam grabbed him. Manhandled him. Bent him over their bathroom sink and grabbed handfuls of his belly, his ass, his hips. Dug his fingers into the softness of Dean's upper arms. 

Dean came screaming his brother's name. Literally, screaming. Throat raw. He'd never screamed before. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” he panted. Sam led him to their bedroom, spread him out on the bed, laid kisses all over his body, sucking, nibbling, biting. Not to try and start anything up again – just because he wanted to. Wanted to touch Dean. And Dean sure as hell wasn't going to say no to that.

“That's it, though,” he said, when he'd caught his breath. “No more feeding.”

“Let's stay in this house,” Sam said, and kissed Dean open-mouthed and messy. “Just for a little while longer. Six months. A year. Two months. Hell, I don't care, I just love being here with you, our own little world, no monsters, no nothing.”

And what could Dean say, to Sammy's obvious happiness, besides, “Okay.”

They signed a year-long lease. 

 

True to his word, Sam stopped feeding Dean. Mostly.

He got a job at a bakery and brought home leftovers, and instead of the five-egg omelets and decadent sandwiches, Dean had a muffin and a scone for breakfast. He hadn't found a job yet, but it didn't really matter – he had his hands full running the scams that let them stay in this place and live large. 

Sam kissed him goodbye in the morning, sugar on his lips, and Dean stood and waved him off. 

Then he'd head out and get some fried chicken and waffles, smothered with butter, gravy, maple syrup. Let that settle. Have another muffin. 

Sam was still in the habit, too, unable to break it. He'd get home and immediately fix Dean a snack, like it was second nature. Huge plates of greasy nachos. A couple grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches. He'd sit by Dean's side while Dean ate them, both of them watching TV, and when Dean burped and put the clean plates aside, sooner rather than later Sam would have broken out a party-sized back of chips and a plastic container of cupcakes.

When they were together, it didn't matter. It was bliss, actually. When his mouth wasn't full of food, it was full of his brother. They were safe, relaxed, Sam happy for the first time. Truly happy.

When Sam left, though, Dean would walk around the house, eating a Snickers bar to tide him over and catologuing the changes in his body. He wished they'd never bought that damn scale, because every day the numbers went up a little more. He was spreading outwards, not just his belly, but his ass, too, his face, his thighs, hell, even his rings were too tight, cutting into his fingers. He was slower getting up in the morning. Had to sit upright by degrees. First elbows, then scootch back, then push himself up.

235\. 

He caved, bought new shirts. Felt his thighs rub as he walked. Lowered himself down into chairs, a hand on the table. Spread his legs when he wanted to bend to tie his shoes. Belly falling in the necessary space.

240.

He wasn't fucking comfortable, was the problem. He didn't like the feeling of his own skin touching his own skin, so he learned to arrange his clothes just-so – t-shirt securely wedged in the crease between his belly and pecks, snug around the roll on his hips. He could feel his pants button digging into his stomach at all times, and when he sat, his stomach rested gently on his lap. It didn't sag, standing, for which he was grateful, but he had to accommodate it like it was a person – it bumped into the sink when he brushed his teeth, or the stove when he cooked. His hand was always finding its way to it, resting on it.

Sam brought home buckets of fried chicken, biscuits, gravy, Mud pie and apple cobbler. Kept re-stocking the ice cream. Didn't say anything when he came home and there were two empty pizza boxes in the trash can. 

Worshipped Dean with his hands and his words and his eyes.

245\. 

Dean buttered his croissant, absentmindedly cut an extra hunk and put it on his tongue, sucking it til it dissolved. Spread his second croissant with Nutella. Third, peanut butter, plus a couple extra dabs of Nutella.

“The muffins are going stale,” Sam said, casually, and plopped one on Dean's plate, patted the belly which kept Dean from scooting all the way up to the low table. Dean was sitting back, legs spread, hand on his stomach and other hand finishing off the croissant.

“Thanks,” Dean said, automatically ripping a chunk off the muffin. Sam kissed his chewing mouth. 

Not ten minutes later, Dean was rummaging around in the fridge, one arm propping him up, belly obscuring the lower shelves.

He was addicted to eating.

Addicted to the feeling of fullness, that heavy, slow laziness.

Addicted to Sam and Sam's hands and his words and his cock and that fucking look in his eye that said Dean was the most special thing that ever happened to him.

He thumped down in his chair with a grunt, began slowly unwrapping the block of cheddar he'd taken from the fridge. Cut himself a huge chunk. How many calories was this? 200? 300? He cut himself another massive piece – half the block gone now – and wandered into the living room, plopped down on the couch with the remote. There was an unopened bag of doritos on the coffee table, as well as a little bowl full of chocolate bars, and Dean helped himself. Tried to get comfortable. Reached down and hefted his belly to unstick it from his jeans button, then leaned back, smoothed his shirt down.

250.

He could never tell Sam how much he hated his new body. Sam, who loved it so much. It was what made his brother happy, and so he had to pretend it made him happy, too.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam purred, coming up behind him and grabbing his ass. “You've gotten so big.”

“I know,” Dean said. He was standing at the counter, eating peanut butter with a spoon. He'd drizzled hot fudge into the jar for an added kick. 

“Look at your stomach,” Sam said. “It's sitting on the counter.”

Dean looked down. So it was. “It's fucking heavy, Sam,” he said, going for lighthearted. “Gotta rest it.”

“Let's go for a walk,” Sam suggested, a wicked glint in his eye. “A nice stroll to MacDonalds.”

Sam held Dean's hand firmly and walked quickly. The first block was okay. Dean could feel his stomach bouncing, jostling, and he had to reach down and tug on his shirt a few times. 

By the second block he was a little out of breath.

Third block, panting.

“I can't believe how out of shape you are,” Sam said, squeezing his hand as they approached the counter. “Dean? What do you want?”

“Two big macs, 20 piece chicken tenders, x-large fries.” The answer was automatic. “Oh, throw in a cheeseburger, too.”

“You're an American cliché,” Sam said. “A fat guy at Macdonalds.”

Dean's belly nudged the table. He bent over his fries, nodded. “Don't I know it.”

“Do you have any idea what I'm gonna do to you when we get home?”

Dean grinned. “Think I do.”

They walked just as fast back to the house, and Dean was out of breath again when they got to their door. He was grateful to collapse onto the bed, letting Sam manhandle him out of his clothes, tutting at the red marks left from his boxers.

“You're gorgeous,” Sam whispered.

260.

He wouldn't admit it, but he'd started leaving his boots loosely laced so he could just jam his feet into them. He got out of breath if he tried to sit in the chair and lean over to do them up – too much belly in the way.

270.

He moved the seat of the Impala back, then ate an entire stick of butter. Sucked his fingers clean. Licked the plate. 

280.

They weren't gonna hunt again. Dean's arms felt squished all the time, pressed against his growing sides. People called him “big guy” in public. He spread his legs a little whenever he sat down, now. It was too uncomfortable to have his belly sitting on his lap and mounding up before him – better to let it come down between his legs, breathe a little.

290.

As soon as dinner was over – two pizzas for Dean – he scooted to the edge of the kitchen chair, gripped the table, pushed himself up. 

“Where do you think you're going?” Sam said. 

“Living room,” Dean said. His back had been hurting lately, and the couch was so much more comfortable. It was natural now to rest his hands on top of his belly. When Sam came in with a pint of ice cream, he rested that on his belly, too. Hadn't looked in the mirror for about 30 pounds, but he knew he had a double chin because he felt it, felt his chin sink into his neck when he looked down. He shifted, moved his belly into a more comfortable position. Sam snuggled into his side and curved an arm around so Dean's stomach sat half-on top of it.

“This is a fucking heavy belly,” Sam said.

“Sure is.”

Sam rucked up his shirt, gave it a lazy scratch, and Dean grunted in pleasure. 

He'd never hated and loved anything so much.

300\. 

They celebrated. Spent the whole day at the Waffle House, squeezed into a booth together, talking, laughing, Dean eating. Slowly ordering, working their way off the menu.

Three waffles. French toast. A five-egg omelette. Bacon. A pot roast sandwich, with cheese. Fries. Mozarella sticks. Fried cheesecake bites. Jalepeno poppers. Mac and cheese. A bacon cheeseburger with cheddar and blue. More cheesecake bites because those things were damn tasty. Two milkshakes. A few glasses of coke. Chicken tenders. Mayonnaise. More fries. More mayonnaise. 

And then – because this is what had started it all – an ice cream sundae.

It hadn't even been a year.

“Are you proud of yourself, Dean?” Sam murmured in his ear, one hand on his rumbling, unhappy stomach. “'Cause I'm proud of you.”

Dean shifted and stifled a burp against his hand. Sucked in a breath, stifled another burp. Spread his legs a little further apart, trying to keep his thighs from touching so his belly could have more room. Like always, his own hand had gone to rest on top of his stomach, and Sam grabbed his fingers. Their clasped hands were a pleasant weight on Dean's stomach. 

“Yeah, Sammy,” he said. “I'm real proud.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dean doesn't like his new, larger body, but gains because he wants to please his brother.


End file.
